


what you're worth

by Anonymous



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Have you read them yet, Little Yuri is 11, M/M, Victor is head of Slytherin house, You Have Been Warned, read the tags, someone please send Victor to muggle therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-23
Updated: 2018-05-23
Packaged: 2019-05-10 12:02:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14736617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Ah. That’s how he knows the password. Little stalker, hounding Victor’s door at night.





	what you're worth

Victor leans back in his chair and props his feet up on his desk, dragonhide boots perilously close to a stack of student essays. He rolls a sip of firewhiskey on his tongue. Fifty-year-old, oak-aged, delicate smoky flavour. It’s good, he tells himself, being the head of Slytherin house. Rich parents know how the real world works. All kinds of things go smoother when you show appreciation.

A wave of his wrist sets the fireplace burning. He doesn’t bother with the other lights; his office is half-dark, exactly how he wants it at the end of a long day. It’s peaceful. Relaxing. The stacks of books lining the walls, the antique, upholstered furniture (deep green brocade, Slytherin crest) make it easy to imagine that he’s somewhere else—that the wealth and respectability of his surroundings were accorded to him rather than to his position, ever contingent on flattery and brown-nosing.

His eyes rest on the essays again, a predictable source student inanity. This is all there is. If he keeps up the brown-nosing, he might be set for principal in another sixty years or so, but what would that do, other than change who he brown-noses to? He sips on his whiskey, lost in thoughts about an auto-grade quill—surely it is possible, a variant on the magic of the sorting hat? Review content, but of an essay rather than a head, and sort it into bands based on a grading rubric. But it’s a pipe dream—Victor’s a potions expert, nothing to do with Charms or Arithmancy, as tempted he is by the recognition of being the first to replicate the Sorting Hat magic in centuries.

He doesn’t know what’s wrong tonight, he doesn’t often get this maudlin. He’s made a life for himself here; the position is comfortable and he’s got his diversions, his whiskey. The furniture is nice, even if it isn’t his. He still gets to— he looks up, startled out of his thoughts, because his office door opens, slowly and with a screech.

Victor doesn’t expect anyone; no one who has the password has the poor manners to intrude without calling him first, and in an emergency, there’ll be a patronus first. So he schools his features, more than ready to rip the rude intruder a new one—in a very polite, mild-mannered way.

“Yes?” Victor says, air-headed and friendly.

A blond head peeks, then a small body slips through—ah. One of his own. Sooner than Victor expected, but not at all unwelcome.

Little Yuri stands in the middle of his office with his fists balled by his side, chin held high in spite of how hard his cheeks are burning. “I saw him yesterday!” he says in Russian, as he always does when they're alone, looks up, so scared yet so brave. “And if you don’t do it with me, too, I’ll tell!”

Ah. That’s how he knows the password. Little stalker, hounding Victor’s door at night.

“Who did you see?” Victor asks, mildly curious, slightly distracted—wouldn’t do to imply he’s got something to hide.

Little Yuri juts his chin out. “Katsuki.”

Victor’s latest distraction: hard worker, quidditch thighs and ass. Needs a Potions NEWT to apply to the Aurors, but such unfortunate anxiety when faced with an actual cauldron. _Very brave, a true credit to your house!_ Victor had said when a blushing Katsuki had first propositioned him. And, _I’ll keep my eyes only on you_ , before last term’s final exam.

“Using any means to secure what you want,” Victor says, fond, to little Yuri now. “I don’t expect any less from the best of Slytherin house.”

Yuri clenches his fists tighter, lifts his chin higher. “I can do what he does! I can be better!” Little Yuri’s voice wavers. Delicious: the fear that Victor will hold him to his words. Or worse, the fear that he won’t.

“You can, can you.” Victor sips at the last of his whiskey; swirls it in his mouth, savoring the moment. Little Yuri’s eyes never leave his. “Then why don’t you come and show me.”

Yuri’s throat bobs as he swallows, his little fingers tremble as they pull at the knot of his house tie, but his chin stays high, his eyes stay ever on Victor. The tie falls to the floor, then the robe. Yuri doesn’t check where they land, takes one step after the other with bony shoulders squared and his head held high. _Good_ , Victor thinks. _Good_.

The logs crack in the fire. Light dances onto Yuri’s cheeks, the soft line of his jaw.

Yuri hesitates in front of Victor’s desk. Victor doesn’t urge him. He might have worked on this for months—lingering touches and praise, attention given, then withdrawn—but Yuri must think this a victory. A daring. A choice.

Victor may have power, but oh so do they, the little ones that come behind his desk. One word, and Victor’s house of cards falls. So he waits and relishes the tension in the air: how new this must be to Yuri. How exciting.

Finally— _finally—_ Yuri breathes in and his little fingers go for the button of his pants. “Shoes and socks, too,” Victor says, ever so quietly, because he wants to see those little feet. Hear them tap on his floor.

This is the moment, then. A fork in the path, a chance to contemplate the road not taken. Yuri doesn’t know even he’s even standing at a crossroads, barefoot with just his shirt on, clothes a trail on Victor’s office floor. But here is how this goes, if Victor makes him get dressed then quietly obliviates him. It’s how it always goes for the slight immigrant boys in Slytherin house—the first stepping stone for the future bullies of wizarding Britain.

If you’re smart like Victor, you move out of their way; you smile, you put all your ambition into degrees, inventions, accolades. You’re smart and gritty, thirsty, motivated; you’re willing to work harder and longer than all of them so you can get ahead. You get your degrees but you still end up here, serving them and their kids, trying to believe that fucking Hufflepuffs is power and gifted whiskey is respect.

But little Yuri. He is not the smiling type. He hisses and snarls, fights Gryffindors until his fists are bloody. He’s the type that won’t admit defeat, the type you make an example of. And such a convenient example he will be: wizard-born, so you can’t be accused of prejudice; parents lost in the first Voldemort war, so you don’t risk an advantageous alliances, past or future. _This is what happens to you if you dare go against me_ ; this is where Yuri ends.

Unless.

Unless Victor’s hand reaches out, moves to cup Yuri’s chin. Unless he meets his eyes, like Yuri’s eyes have met his, with promise, with intent.

“Sit on my lap,” Victor rumbles out, voice heavy with all that will be.

Because this is what Victor will do: he will teach his little one entitlement. He will teach him how to take. Little by little, he will make sure that power in Slytherin house flows up through Yuri. That if you want to suck up to Viktor Nikiforov, unrivaled potions master of northern Europe, you’d better cozy up to Yuri first.

The future prefect of Slytherin house looks up at Victor like he can’t believe his little gamble worked. Victor waits—it’s all about waiting, for Yuri to square his shoulders, to reach for Victor’s leg, to scramble up, warm weight delicious on Victor’s hardening groin. Victor splays one hand on Yuri’s cheek, feels the bare smoothness of his skin. Yuri nuzzles into it with his eyes closed, seeks out its warmth. _Good_ , Victor thinks. _Not afraid anymore._

His other hand, he on Yuri’s thigh, slowly moves it higher, brushing the hem of Yuri’s shirt. “More firewhiskey?” Victor says as he lets it rest on the side of Yuri’s hip.

Yuri’s eyes flutter open, slightly dizzy as his mind links up the empty tumbler Victor’s handing him to the bottle of Old Ogden’s next to where Victor’s feet are propped. Yuri twists around for it and doles some out, quite generous. Takes a large sip and gulps it down before he hands the glass back to Victor. Their fingers meet on the tumbler, their eyes meet over it and there’s a challenge in Yuri’s— _I dare you to scold me._ Victor won’t. It’s good that Yuri feel a little bit of privilege, start getting used to it, taking it for granted like so many of his housemates do. So much of authority is in your body, in the way it takes up space.

Victor takes his own sip, then, still looking at Yuri. Yuri’s hand reaches back for the glass.

_Good._

“Slower.” Victor lays a hand on Yuri’s as Yuri moves the glass to his mouth. “Only children gulp.”

Over the class, Yuri peers at him.

“Grown-ups sip, take their time between drinks.”

Yuri smirks at him and takes another big gulp—there’s the spunky bravado.

“There’s no need to hurry if there’s one to stop you.” Victor says, voice low in his throat. “If you’re certain that there will always be more.” Little brats pick up on cues like that. A part of their lizard brain will notice when you drink like their dad, not like an immature runt. “So you roll it on your tongue, taste the flavor, enjoy the experience. Savor it.” Learn how. It will come useful.

Yuri keeps peering at him, but he tries it: takes another sip and does like he’s told. His nose wrinkles up as he tries not to wince; _cute_ , Victor thinks, and lets his eyes soften with approval. Yuri looks at him then does it again, throat and tongue accustomed to the burn.

“Yes. Like that.” Victor says. Little Yuri preens at the praise.

Victor takes the tumbler from him and sips, too, enjoys the whiskey on his tongue like he’ll enjoy the weight of Yuri’s dick; all of it will fit in his mouth and Yuri’s hips will buck up, he’d blush so prettily on Victor’s deep green sheets. Another sip, all while looking at Yuri.

Yuri takes the glass back and sips like he’s thinking of how he’ll crawl over Victor after and take hold of his dick—small white hand; dark, purple-hard dick, adult and veiny. Another sip, Yuri’s eyes brave on Victor like Victor’s been claimed now, like it’s only a matter of time until Yuri’s lips close on him.

“Good,” Victor says, glass back in his own hand now, flicking what’s left in it down his throat and swallowing down. Then Yuri puts his hands around his neck and scoots closer, leans in to kiss him, soft milky lips pressed against his. Victor lets him so he’ll learn that when you make a bid, you get, and you feel powerful, and it feels good.

Yuri pulls back and looks at him, amazed—must have been his first kiss; Victor remembers feeling like this, like you can’t believe your luck. “Fucking worth it,” Yuri says as he darts forth again, lips closing on Victor’s, this time with more intent, nipping on Victors, tongue thrusting in. He’s awkward and unpracticed, but Victor lets him lead, opens his own lips under his, slides their tongues together. Yuri moans as he presses himself even closer; Victor lets the empty tumbler thunk down on the carpet because his hands need to be on Yuri, on his ass, his back.

“You should try for the quidditch team next year,” Victor says. “You should practice and make seeker.” Yuri’s proud, so proud that Victor thinks of him, will be even prouder as a captain of the quidditch team; three years down the road, Victor will clutch that ass, those thighs. Victor’s good at thinking win-win.

Yuri kisses him again, each time smoother, lets his hands roam bravely onto Victor’s neck, his hair. Victor lets himself be kissed, by this Yuri, but also by the future prefect, law student, minister for magic.

“Suck me off,” Yuri whines into the kiss, and Victor doesn’t ask him where he learned those words. “Fuck you, I want it, fuck this fucking savoring-”

Smart boy, Victor thinks. He grabs under Yuri’s ass and holds tight as he takes his feet off his desk; Yuri’s arms clutch around Victor’s neck, his legs around his waist as Victor walks them to the bedroom door. The handle moves, wandless; the bedroom fireplace lights up. Victor’s knees hit the mattress so he bends over, laying Yuri down, climbing over him. Yuri’s fast, his quick, smart boy, opens his legs for Victor to kiss and lick, closes them around his neck, pushes his dick up, up, up—and whines when Victor avoids it, going for his balls instead: smooth, soft, hairless and pink.

Victor grinds his own dick into the mattress through his trousers; imagines it sinking in the pucker that his tongue swipes over—such small boy, how his asshole will gape, Victor’s thumbs stretching it even wider as it glistens with the lube that Victor makes himself himself.

But all in its good time, (Yuri powerful, sinking into Victor, he will, Victor knows, because of how his dick presses up, insistent—Victor swallows it down, swallows it all, because he’s also better—better than all the classmates and political connections Yuri will do this with; there’s nothing they can do that he won’t) – and Yuri’s coming on his tongue, fucking Victor’s mouth with jerky thrusts, whining as Victor milks him.

“You—do you want—” Yuri says, still panting, as his little dick slides off Victor’s lips.

“I’m savoring,” Victor says and peers up.

“No! I want—” Yuri scrambles up, starts tugging at Victor’s shirt like he must have all, have it right now—throws himself into a kiss like if he doesn’t, there will be no later; like Victor might tell him to get up, get dressed, go to bed.

“You’ll have.” Victor says, even. “Don’t gulp. There will always be more later.”

Yuri pulls back, eyes searching Victor’s face. “Really?”

“Really,” Victor says, and waits. His little Yurka. So strong, so brave.

“You lie down now,” Yuri says, confident that he’s allowed, that it’s something Victor will do. Learning his lessons.

Victor does lie down, for Yuri to touch, to kiss, to undress. To let Victor’s dick out, hard and straining, and claim it for himself. To go back to the first year bedroom and know he’s worth more than all the other losers, because he asked a grown man for sex and he got it.

Yuri kisses Victor’s ear, down his throat, lets his little hands roam. It’s awkward but it’s nice to be petted, to be savored. He unbuttons Victor’s shirt, all the way down, his small hands strangely careful, and there are so many thoughts that Victor doesn’t think while Yuri explores.

He doesn’t think of another immigrant boy, and who he could have been if only someone had taken the time, had been on his side. Victor had thought Yakov was— _“You just focus on your studies, Vitya,_ something _worthwhile will come up!”_ —but all he can think about, with one small-fingered hand on the side of his neck and another is his hair, is the bile in his own throat when Yakov had said, “an excellent opportunity to influence the future of wizarding Britain, to shape young Slytherin minds,” and Victor had heard, _this is what you deserve, this is all that you’re good for._ Victor hadn’t said, “I trusted you!” hadn’t said, “You let me believe you’d talk to your connections on my behalf!” He’d just smiled and said, “Thank you for this opportunity,” and signed, and asked “When do I start.”

He doesn’t think, “Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! Why did I let myself trust him, why didn’t I hedge my bets!” of the condescending, “I’m sorry, Victor, but I’d be sure to let you know if something comes up” from former classmates and friends.

He doesn’t think of how many have been through his office, of the ones who learned to like his cock. They came for NEWTS, for grades, recommendation letters, apprenticeships, house politics, the works—but only one ever came because all he wanted was Victor, and he’d stalk and blackmail to get him if he has to.

Only one has touched his lips down Victor’s chest like Victor’s precious; the highest reward worth having, something worthy to strive for, a victory to get.

Victor sees it in how Yuri unbuttons him; the little o of his mouth as Victor’s dick—large and ugly, the dick of an adult—is free from his pants. The way Yuri licks his lips and swallows nervously; the way it takes two hands that barely close around his shaft to hold him. “It won’t fit,” he says, sad, that _that_ ’s what he’s sad over, that he won’t be able to suck Victor like Victor sucked him. It gets to Victor, he can’t-

A meaner, bitter part of him rises; he wants to say, “Katsuki can take it in, I’m sure you will, too, when you grow up,” but it freezes in his throat. It’s what he would’ve done—before, but not now. Having them both insecure, pitted against each other so they’ll try hard—it’s how the jaded part of him would have it, but this is not how he wants it to be; it never was, him being such a _failure failure failure,_ a pathetic old queen, a nobody with no power-

“Victor?” Yuri says, so Victor opens his eyes but Yuri is blurry-

Yuri scrambles up, lies all on top of him with his hands on Victor’s shoulders, one leg pressing into Victor’s dick. And here’s the little kisses again: pressed lips against Victor’s wet cheeks, against his mouth. It’s so uncomplicated and Victor feels loved—not for what he is or what he has achieved, but because someone saw him cry and just— _didn’t want him to_.

He opens his eyes and looks at Yuri, this spunky gangly kid that he’s _keeping_ and let someone try to pry him out of Victor’s arms—and-

Yuri is _worried_ , his eyes are closed but he looks like he’s kissing out of fear; out of wanting to fix things for victor but being scared that he’s too small, that he doesn’t know how to. Victor feels like an utter tit, sniffles once and gets up, wipes at his own face.

“You can cry. I’m not gonna tell anyone.” Yuri says and Victor recognizes his own words from six months ago. There’d been a fight, first year boys eager to set the pecking order, happens all the time. Little Yuri had ended up on his office couch, furious and bloody, fists even smaller than they’re now tight with trying to keep the tears in—and failing, as soon as Victor’s office door closed. That’s what Victor had said, to a little Yuri purple with trying to contain his tears and his rage. _You can cry. I_ _won’t tell anyone._ So that’s what Yuri tells him.

Little Yuri, caring, giving back.

“Thanks,” Victor says and rubs his face. “I just… remembered something.”

Yuri nods at him. “I sometimes remember stuff, too.” Solemn and serious. “But I didn’t, now. Not with you.”

And it makes a sick sort of sense, now, why _Yuri_ was the one who watched out for _that_ and noticed Katsuki—and why his lizard brain went, _I love_ _Victor_ _more,_ _I can do that,_ _that needs to be me_.

“What does Katsuki do when you cry?” Yuri says.

“He’s never seen me cry.” It’s a pact. “Only you.” Yuri knows now, that he’s special.

Again, Yuri nods. Then looks down at Victor’s crotch. “Can I try again?”

Victor’s gone limp; he’d much rather polish that bottle of Old Ogden’s and pass out, but he owes it to little Yuri, the chance to prove himself, to not be sent off to his bed to feel inadequate and worry over how he compares. “If you remember something and it’s bad, stop,” Victor says. “Or if I’m doing something, tell _me_ to stop. We can always get back to it later.”

Yuri looks at him, steady and intense. “You tell me, too.”

It’s Victor’s turn to nod. He doesn’t get flashbacks, that’s not what just happened, but it’s working for him, to let Yuri believe it. To think they’re the same.

Yuri opens his mouth. “Does K-”

“Stop with Katsuki,” Victor says. “He’s just here because of his NEWT grade.” And, supposedly, because of a childhood crush on Victor because of reading about his inventions in the paper. He says he likes the taste of Victor's dick, and Victor has no cause to mistrust him. But last and not least, Katsuki is here for the under the table anxiety potion which Victor brews so Katsuki isn't registered with St. Mungo’s. In ten years, such will be their peace: Yuuri will know about Victor sleeping with students, Victor will know Yuuri is an Auror with undocumented mental illness. They’ll hold their careers in each other's hands, and that will be enough. No: that will be enough _for Victor_. You never know, with Gryffindors. When they’ll decide that the world needs to burn 'cause something Isn’t Right.

On balance, Victor would much rather have his and Yuri’s kind of loyalty.

—little Yuri, who is now scrambling off of him and settling between his legs.

Victor closes his eyes and imagines a Ministry Banquet; Yuri, square-jawed and stately, working the room with Victor by his side; silken robes, delicacy finger foods, champagne (feeling respected, feeling equal, being worthy in his own right; not _well read but ultimately still a teacher_ , not _you’re still less than us, though please accept this bottle and consider recommending Marygold for the internship_ ).

Little Yuri’s hand closes around Victor’s dick, and Victor thinks of apparating back to their place (something central—a cozy apartment in Paris, with a balcony, a little table, and a view), laughing as they cross the floor. Warm breeze sways the curtains; Yuri lays him down like there’s no other reward he’d like at the end of a long day.

(Victor would be the one to know him best, to take away his rage with a hand between his shoulders)

(remind him that it’s them against the world, and nothing else matters)

Little Yuri's hand squeezes, his teeth scrape, his tongue swipes. And Victor’s fists clutch the sheets.

 

 

 


End file.
